Descriptive Essay On A House Of The House

It was an unusual quiet evening at my favorite diner. I always loved meeting my beautiful wife here after a long day of work to get some of Chicago’s best coffee. Upon opening the front door, the welcoming smell of freshly ground coffee fills my nostrils as I take a deep breath, but at the same time, I lose my breath as I spot my stunning wife waiting for me. She was wearing a vibrant red dress, as she knows that it’s my favorite, while her hair shimmered in the light.

Another issue I have to reflect on is tax deductions on mortgage interest rates. I think such a deduction would hinder the benefits of owning a home. If tax deduction on mortgage interest was to be removed then the after-tax cost would increase which would reduce housing prices.  The removal of such a tax might entice me to buy a bigger home and then borrow beyond my means. This tax cut could discourage me from becoming a homeowner as well. As I mentioned earlier in this paper, incentives may encourage me to reevaluate my decisions. When a government offers tax credits it can be considered a benefit that will out-weigh the cost.

Driving to Long Prairie, on the right side of the road, up a hill with a long, paved driveway will be a house to the left. This house is two-stories with a basement. The first time I saw it, the house had a worn out, light tan vinyl siding with faded, dark red shutters from years of Minnesota weather. At the end of the driveway was a garage that resembled the houses color. To the right of the driveway was a large stone wall that was overrun with wild grape vines. In the middle of the wall was a stairway that leads to an old, rundown playhouse. Also, there was a large, gray brick shed further away. Beyond the house are the woods, littered with pine needles from the rows of trees my grandpa planted when he moved there. The whole area is surrounded by the overpowering smell of pine, and the silence the woods carries; it brings a calming, peaceful sensation to me. As the years have gone on, the house and I have aged, grown, and changed together.

In the living room, the cuckoo clock said, "Ticktock, seven-thirty o'clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven-thirty o'clock!" As if the cuckoo clock is afraid, nobody, in the house would wake up. The living room is like a perfect, black and white, cover. I had always been afraid to sit, in the living room, in case I wrinkle the fabric or stain it. The couch is cream but inlaid with a fine green silk, and leaves embroidered so delicately that they might have landed there in spring and just sunk in, but I know they took hundreds of hours to sew. The black curtains are linen, the kind of black that is untouched by hands and devoid of dust. A cursory look to the right shows me the almost hidden cords that are used to open and close them. In the living room, there is no television, no dining table, only the chairs arranged around the bespoke fireplace which leaps with a gas flame. The photographs are black and white, not casual family pictures, but arranged to look like such by a professional, anyone of them wouldn't look out of place. The floor is a high polished wood, dark and free of either dust or clutter. I always felt like this was my home. "I belong here."

The back door of the moving truck slammed shut, making me slightly jump gasping in surprise. I turned in my seat and look at the house, I've lived my whole life in. Gloomily I stare remembering all the happy and sad times I've had here.

Quietly walking through the woods, the smell of the abundant environment filled my nostrils. The cool breeze of the wind filled my lungs. At this moment I knew that not a thing in the world could bother me as long as I was in the woods. As I reached my destination, I sat down, took a deep breath, and the hunt was on. Suddenly, everything started coming to life. Birds began to chirp all around me, cows began mooing as the sun peaked over the

With every soft step as I approached the leaf-filled ditch, my low top Converse kissed the road’s cracks. I felt the satisfying crunch of stale leaves through my black canvas shoes when I stepped off of the pavement. They flew up with every shuffling movement I made in attempts to avoid the prickle of thorns. I was hypnotised by peaceful nature surrounding me. Blissful serenity was soon interrupted by a breeze that tousled my hair and nipped at the high-points of my face. Chilled air climbed through my jacket to the bottom of my spine. The warmth that had been in the wind just weeks ago had either evaporated into the sky or crept into the earth. Gentle chills danced through the overgrown weeds at

Let me guide you to walk through our dream house. In front of the entrance facing the NE is an existing heavily landscaped island with giant size rocks and tall pine trees and flower bushes. Crossing a curved drive way and stepping up three platforms to an extended 20ft wide and 8ft deep arch overhang, then you are heading to an arch shaped 12ft door frame with a solid mahogany double wooden door (2- 3x8) paired with two 2x8 engraved art glass panels on each side and an arch glass panel on top of the doorframe.

I grabbed the icy doorknob and turned it slowly before the winter wind pushed it inside with a slam, revealing our small one room cabin, full of candles all shapes & sizes. On the walls children's artwork was seen almost everywhere you darted your eyes, colors filled the room bringing cheer to anyone that was to enter, in contrast to the many war diaries I got from my grandma. The warmth of from the fireplace was almost felt immediately in contrast to the harsh winter outside. I listened to the familiar squeak of the floor below us as we made our way over to her low bed, on it was an large old quilt made by

It was a fresh afternoon when I accompanied my best friend to visit my grandparents in countryside – Ben Tre, where is well-known as a tranquil place. Those days, I live with my beloved cousin; she was a girl of tender-hearted, tolerant and lenient aspects. At her will, she ushered me and my friend to observe how developed our countryside is.

When I was walking home from school I saw a house. This was no ordinary house I said to my friend. He agreed because the house was so eerie. When we walked by it something moved and a box fell. When we saw that, we booked it and ran down the street to my house. When we got inside we decided to go have a look inside. When we asked my mom if we could she said NO. We were still planning on going inside anyways. So the next day we are going to go inside and stay the night there. We told my mom that I was staying the Night at Hunters house. Hunter told his Dad that he was staying the night at my house.

The Living Room in the back of my house has taught me to laugh at myself, to appreciate all that I have, and that while places may look different throughout time we are the ones who decide if that place holds a meaning to us despite its changes. My living room is a chapter of how my home in dry, flat, and hot Texas has affected who I am today and how I tell my story. The neighborhood I live in has this certain atmosphere, that once you turn on to our old grave like roads, you feel safe and at home. At the entrance you are welcomed by a park that reminds me of Sunday afternoons and sticky ice cream hands. My house sits in the middle of the neighborhood where at one end you’ve found yourself near the park and the other end you find yourself in the edge of a busy road surrounded by corner stores and our local grocery store. My box like house seemed as though parties were always occurring, but without the cars lined up and down the street, everyone around us quickly figured out that almost the entire Mondragon family had moved into the same neighborhood.

I turned around, looking back at my old room. The paint on the wall is peeling off, the ceiling was falling apart, and the floor was cracking open. This was the house I have been living for thirteen years, and now I need to leave. Mom and dad bought this house from an old man, then thirteen years past, this is 2004. yes, it is already 2004, how fast is it! I stood there, staring at the empty room with only a little furniture. I can’t feel home, where is my home? I don’t know this weird feeling. Happy and sad at the same time. However, if I left, is it going to be an enjoyable life, or it is going to be another way that leads me to my doom? I kept repeating in my mind.

The first thing I noticed when looking at the house built at the end of the cul-de-sac on Calle Redonda, was it’s large stones. Ninety percent of the house was covered with them. I stood at the beginning of the driveway and  caught sight of little sprouts of weeds bursting through the cracks between each stone. The further I walked up the driveway closer to the garage, the more pink and sparkly toys I passed by. Pieces of pink chalk, size four children's fluffy shoes, sometimes even princess dresses were all left in the driveway. When I reached the garage door I noticed the weathering on the wood from the sunny days of summer. I could distinguish discoloring on the two metal handles on the sides of the garage doors.

When I wake up, it’s mid morning, much later than when Katie normally makes me get up. I wander down the halls in search of her. When I can’t find her, I sit down, the old floorboards, creaking with age. I am in my favorite spot to pass time. There is a wind on one of the walls. Looking out the window, I see crows gathered in the once glorious courtyard, now nothing more than a slab of concrete. It’s winter so the trees are bare, making the land look even more lonely. There is no life besides the crows, no snowmen, no gaps in the snow from snowball fights, no boot prints, nothing, the snow is a perfect blanket, not one indentation. It saddens me. In the stories I’ve read, there are always little kids playing and making a mess, having fun. I am seven but I’ve never met another kid. Katie is seventeen. I look down the dimly lit hallway, the light casting shadows on every surface. It would be scary had I not been accustomed to it from wandering down corridors that have